


Remembrance

by Saetha



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Comfort, Erebor, F/M, Fluff, Grief, M/M, Memories, Mentions of Character Death, Mourning, Reminiscing, Rivendell, The Company being adorable shits with little Estel, Thorin Has No Sense Of Direction, like Dís and Dáin and the lot, lost more are mentioned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-14
Updated: 2015-01-14
Packaged: 2018-03-07 14:41:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3176344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saetha/pseuds/Saetha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thorin III is set to be crowned as new king of Erebor after the end of the War of the Ring and Aragorn is travelling to Erebor for his coronation. Once there, he visits the tombs of the Line of Durin and remembers the one time he had met the Company of Thorin Oakenshield in Rivendell and how much these meetings have shaped his life. And then there's still Dwalin, guarding the tombs and his fallen kings and receiving comfort where he had not expected it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Remembrance

**Author's Note:**

> Hello lovelies! I hope you'll enjoy this fic - I've been wanting to write something like this FOREVER but somehow never got round to it. So here we go! Please note that I've stuck with the book canon here in which Aragorn was ten years old when the Company visited Rivendell - and was also called Estel, for Elrond and Gilraen had decided not to reveal his true name and lineage to him until he was older to protect him (so Estel had practically no idea he was destined to be a king). 
> 
> Furthermore, thanks go to Matty for pointing out that Aragorn most likely grew up bilingual and all the challenges that it brings with it. Enjoy :).

It is still a strange thing to ride through Middle-earth as a king and without having to heed danger at every corner. It is even stranger to travel slowly and with an entire host of others rather than alone and swiftly on foot. They are so much slower than he is used to from his days wandering the wild - even though he has chosen an escort that is as small as possible without being insulting to the dwarves and thus hampering important negotiations.

On the other hand he can’t deny that it’s indeed a lot more relaxing to travel like this. They still have guards, but the true danger of orcs coming down on them now, several months after the end of the War of the Ring, is small even if there is still fighting in other parts of middle-earth. Several small battles and skirmishes are also what had delayed the coronation of the next King under the Mountain. The Stonehelm had refused to take his father’s crown as long as the lands around the mountain and Dale hadn’t been secured and as such he and the Men he had been allied with had driven all their enemies form their surroundings in the past months and spent the rest of the time rebuilding what had been destroyed of their homes.

The late coronation date has one big advantage, however – Aragorn is able to come in person, a gesture that will only serve to strengthen the bond between their races and kingdoms and hopefully also help with the negotiation of new trade agreements beneficial to them both. There is also another, much smaller and much more selfish reason for him to make the journey which he hasn’t truly shared with his advisors. Arwen is the only one who likely guesses it – sometimes Aragorn forgets she is centuries older than him and that both her father’s and her grandmother’s wisdom have been passed down to her. She can read him like an open book and the fact is both frightening and wonderful.

Aragorn has never been inside the mountain itself even though he has crossed the lands on his travels more than once. However, he knows that some of his forbearers have had encounters with the dwarves of Erebor before and he is no stranger to them himself – after all, Gimli has also come from Erebor. He has visited Dale and found it hospitable enough, but despite its friendly relationship with their neighbours it was still rare for humans to just venture into Erebor and he had not wished to make his lineage known at the time. He has, however, been up at Ravenhill and seen the places where the sons of Durin have fallen – they are marked now by flowers that remind him of the Rohirrim’s _simbelmyne_ , only smaller and their tiny blossoms the colour of shimmering mithril. Nobody knows where they came from or why they grow there but they appeared the spring after the battle and have been growing there ever since then. The Men call them _mithril flowers_ and nobody knows the Khûzdul name the dwarves have given them.

Nothing much has changed on the outside since his last visit several decades ago – the houses of Dale are still colourful and its streets brimming with life both dwarven and human. The only reminders that a dragon has once scorched its walls and burnt its people are in forgotten corners where some stone is still blackened from what had been the beast’s wrath. The traces of battle and mourning, however, are much more recent – together with King Brand so many others have fallen and there hasn’t quite been enough time since the end of the fighting for his son Bard to rebuild everything.

They cross the city and ride straight on to Erebor, past Ravenhill and the two giant statues that frame the entrance to one of the mightiest dwarven kingdoms left in Middle-earth. Aragorn is one of the few living people who have seen the depths of Khazad-Dûm and is alive to tell the tale – and yet, even he is still impressed when he enters the Lonely Mountain. He has heard tales that the floor of the Entrance Hall has once been solid gold, but if it ever was it is no longer so. Instead the green marble of the mountain is apparent on every surface, the veins of quartz, gold and other precious materials in it illuminated by various torches and fires everywhere. The mountain is alive with the bustle of its inhabitants, their talks and the sound of their tasks echoing off its immense walls.

The rest of the day passes quickly with the official reception of the high-ranking guests (even Thranduil seems to have sent an envoy) and a big dinner that is given in their honour, although everyone is quick to assure him that it’s apparently no comparison to what is to come on the morrow, the day of the coronation. Aragorn finds he is tired from the journey and although he will doubtlessly have to hear numerous jokes about ‘old bones’ and ‘tired old men’ the next day from Gimli he excuses himself before everybody else starts drinking themselves into a stupor. Besides, he has no real desire to witness the reaction to Gimli’s and Legolas’ new party trick which involves the latter sitting on the formers shoulders, made even more comical by the sight of Legolas’ feet almost touching the ground when he does. Traditionalists of all races will likely get coronaries tonight after witnessing it.

Arwen is still in the middle of an animated talk with several dwarves and elves and it does Aragorn’s heart good to see their people mingling so. Gimli’s and Legolas’ example has shown many that old enmities can truly be forgotten and friendships forged when the mind is only open enough. He smiles at her when he leaves and his heart soars as it always does when she smiles back at him. Sometimes he still wakes up in the mornings and cannot believe that it wasn’t all yet another dream, that she is truly lying next to him.

Gimli has given him the directions earlier and after a while of walking through the hallways and immense caverns of the dwarves’ home Aragorn eventually finds what he is looking for. The tombs are deep in the heart of the mountain and he supposes it is fitting somehow that those who lie here are returned to the stone of the home that they had given their lives for.

There is a burly shape standing besides the entrance to the tombs and Aragorn almost doesn’t notice that the dwarrow is alive until he wants to walk past him and the figure suddenly moves. It is an old dwarrow, he notices, hair gone completely white and his face and bald head a landscape of wrinkles and deep lines, littered with faded tattoos. Despite his age, however, the dwarf seems unscathed by the weight of the armour on his shoulders and the axe in his hand, the gaze from his grey eyes still sharp. Even his moves are as quick as those of one a hundred years his junior.

“Who seeks entry to these halls?” The words are no more than a mere formality, but the dwarrow clearly takes them seriously. Aragorn is suddenly sure that despite his age, nobody would be able to get past him if he did not want them to. His posture, growling voice, tattoos and bald head finally make his name come to Aragorn’s mind as well – Dwalin. He remembers how intimidating he had found the tall dwarf when he had first met him.

“I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn.” he replies with a small inclination of his head. There is no need for titles here, he feels. “I am pleased to see that you are still alive and well, Master Dwalin.” he adds with a smile and wonders whether Dwalin can connect the young boy named ‘Estel’ with the man standing in front of him. “I have come to pay my respects to the dead.”

Dwalin nods and there might be something akin to recognition in his face, although he doesn’t quite manage a smile. Aragorn cannot tell whether he has in fact recognised him or only his name. With an inviting gesture he takes away the axe that has blocked Aragorn’s way so far. Aragorn walks past him with another nod of thanks and into the great cavern where Thorin Oakenshield and his kin have found their final rest. Only a few candles are illuminating the place, flames dancing in an invisible breath of air and throwing shades everywhere, creating the illusion of life where there is none.

Thorin’s tomb is in the middle of the room, his name and title carved upon it in dwarven runes and the crest of Durin beneath. Fíli’s and Kíli’s are on his left and right, guarding him even in death. That of his sister Dís, who has died a decade ago, is next to them, finally re-uniting her with the family that she has outlived for so long. Dáin and his wife Bjalla are buried only a short distance away, Dáin’s tomb still new, the runes on it fresh and their edges sharp.

Aragorn has heard much about Fíli and Kíli from Bilbo throughout the years. Even though he has only met them for a few hours during their stay in Rivendell he still remembers their wild laughter and constant joking, an impression that is only amplified by the old hobbit’s stories. According to him they have been mischievous and always good for pranks throughout the quest, much like Merry and Pippin are now. Reckless, too, bleeding out their lives much too early on the ice and stone of Ravenhill.

Dís he knows only from stories, the dwarrowdam who should have been Queen under the Mountain but who had declined the honour if word was right, ceding the throne to Dáin, but remaining one of his closest advisors throughout his reign. She had been a mighty dwarrowdam, her temper a feared thing even in her old age, but also full of wisdom that had not been dimmed by the magnitude of her grief. Dáin had been a mighty king, too, leading Erebor once more to prosperity and fighting until the last, defending the body of his friend and King of Dale until he fell under the blades of his foes. An honourable death and one that the dwarves will sing of for ages to come. Bjalla, his queen, had been one of their chief negotiators, her talents at haggling and treaties unsurpassed by all save maybe a few. She had died not long before the War of the Ring and some said that Dáin had secretly hoped to be able to join her again during the Battle of Dale.

There is barely any dust in the room despite its purpose, maybe because there has been another big funeral here not long ago or because the place is taken care of by someone. There are three mithril flowers on Thorin’s tomb, and a single one each on the other ones, all of them still fresh like they have only been plucked today. Aragorn looks over his shoulder to see whether Dwalin might have been the one to do it, but the old dwarrow has returned to his immobile state, the only parts that are visible of him being his large battle axe and the gloved hand holding it.

With a sting in his heart he tries to remember who else of the company is still alive. Their names have become immortal in song now but he could have recited them all by heart anyway. Of the ten remaining companions, three have died in Moria – Balin, Óin and Ori. Glóin is still alive, he knows from Gimli, and is glad to hear that the old dwarrow has survived the second journey back from Rivendell unscathed. Bofur and his brother Bombur and both Dori and Nori are also still living in the mountain, although age has now caught up with all of them. Aragorn remembers the fondness in his eyes when Gimli talks about the old dwarrows and he smiles.

But today he is here to remember the dead, not the living. And so his mind travels back to a time when he was but ten years old, his lineage and true name not yet revealed to him.

*

Lord Elrond has not allowed him to join the dinner with the company of Thorin Oakenshield. Estel has been cross about it all evening, not understanding his reasons. His mother has tried to explain it to him, but he can’t agree with her view that he is still too young to face those particular visitors. After his own meal he slips away anyway and hides behind one of the big bushes around the veranda where Elrond’s guests are eating.

He has never seen dwarves before and he stares open-mouthed at them as they laugh and sing and make bawdy jokes that he doesn’t understand half the words in Westron of. They even throw food, something that the adults would probably have his hide for if he ever attempted it. Lindir’s face, however, is so funny that he almost breaks out laughing.

Of course he also wants to know what the dwarven king looks like and he is pretty sure he has found him when he spies a tall dwarf dressed in dark blue and silver, keeping a slight distance to the others, not seated at the table like the rest of them. He seems happy enough, however, drinking from a flask in his hand and tapping along with his foot to the song one of his companions is singing. Estel has never seen a true king before and it is the first time that he thinks about the meaning of the position – not only the glory but the burden too, to always remain apart from your people so that you might judge and govern them all equally.

Estel ponders those thoughts as he watches Thorin, fascinated by the dwarrow. He would have kept watching hadn’t he heard his mother’s call echoing through the halls behind him and so he sneaks away quietly, resolving to come back later. Gilraen is scolding him as soon as he returns, knowing fully well what he has done, but when Aragorn tells her about Thorin she smiles slightly and reaches out to ruffle her son’s hair. They both know that nothing short of his mother locking him in his room would have kept him from the company of the dwarves now.

Estel is off again as soon as he can, looking for the dwarves. He finds them relatively quickly, the sound of their laughter guiding him to where many of them are sitting. The king is missing, he notices immediately, as are the hobbit and the dwarf with the forked white beard. For a moment he is hesitating and doesn’t quite know what to do, but then a voice calls out to him.

“Oi, young one!”

It is the dwarf with the funny hat who waves at him to come closer to the fire. It is, as Estel notices belatedly, made from some of Elrond’s furniture. He still hesitates to step closer, but none of the dwarves truly look scary – most of them are smiling when they look at him, curious as to who the young boy is who was spying on them so obviously. When he finally steps into the light the dwarf with the hat laughs and bows before him.

“Bofur, at your service!” he says with a grin on his face.

“Estel, at yours.” He tries to reciprocate the dwarf’s bow as well as he can.

“You’re not elvish, are you?” Bofur asks him as Estel steps closer. The boy just shakes his head, still slightly intimidated by all the dwarves around him. The one to his right with a partly bald head and lots of tattoos looks particularly menacing.

“Well, then come and join us!” Bofur exclaims loudly. “I’m sure there’s space for one more around our little fire, right, lads?”

In the next hour Estel learns more about dwarves than he ever thought possible. He learns that not everyone of them is working with metal as he always assumed they did. Dori, the one with the incredibly complicated looking beard, for example, is a weaver and when his little brother Ori shows Estel his book of drawings the boy is astonished and even more delighted when the young dwarf makes a sketch of him and gives it to him to keep. Nori, the third of the three brothers, is more secretive about his profession, only telling him that he ‘deals in rare goods’, a statement that is met with hooting laughter by most of the company and an angry stare by Dwalin and Dori. They are all patient with Estel, too, pointing out the Sindarin that always finds its way into his Westron when he can’t think of the right word quickly enough and urging him to explain what it means.

Bifur frightens Estel at first, but then he thinks of his parents’ friends that come visiting from time to time and how some of them are still injured from fights as well, like old Torun who has lost an eye or the lady Jona who is missing a few fingers but it still always friendly to him. And after Bifur shows him what he can do with a knife and a little piece of wood all fear is banished completely. His brother Bombur, on the contrary, Estel loves from the beginning – he is bigger than any elf he’s ever seen and his knees are by far the most comfortable seats around. Bofur is the funniest of the company, making him laugh and teaching him a few songs which he isn’t sure Elrond will like.

Óin and Glóin stay more in the background, but they are friendly whenever Estel approaches them, doting on him like they rest of the Company. Only many years later does he realise that dwarflings are not overly common and as such much loved by almost everyone, a fondness that extends beyond children of their own race. Even Dwalin, the one he has been so intimated by at first, is no exception – his gruff demeanour soon dissolves and when his roaring laughter rings through the night Estel cannot help but laugh too. He even allows him to have a look at his impressive array of weapons from close up and carefully touch the polished metal of Grasper and the strange metal around his knuckles. After a while Dwalin’s brother Balin joins them again, his face set somewhere between hope and anger which quickly dissipates when he catches sight of his brother and the boy on his lap.

The true entertainment, however, is provided by Fíli and Kíli. The two dwarves are the youngest of the group together with Ori and when Estel asks Kíli why he doesn’t have a beard like the other dwarves yet his brother keels over backwards with laughter whilst Kíli’s ears turn flaming red. They tell him one funny story after the other, imitating the voices, grimacing, making grand gestures and taking over from each other mid-sentence. Estel could have listened to them for weeks.

Instead he suddenly notices how late it has become and that he’d better hurry back to the rooms that belong to him and his mother. It is surprising that she hasn’t already started searching for him. Despite the darkness of the night being lit only by a few candles he knows the way back without even thinking about it – he has grown up in these halls after all. In his hurry to return to his room he doesn’t even notice the dark shape as he rounds a corner at full speed and therefore collides head on with it. Estel makes a muffled sound and would have fallen to the floor if a strong hand hadn’t suddenly reached out and grabbed his arm to steady him.

“Careful there, lad.” The deep voice betrays amusement rather than annoyance. Estel squints and tries to discern who he has run into. It doesn’t take him overly long – stature and height make it clear that it’s a dwarf and there is only one from the Company who hadn’t been there when he had left.

“Are you Thorin?” Estel asks him and immediately regrets it – surely this wasn’t the right way to address royalty! Elrond would have given him a stern rebuke had he been here now. But Estel is tired and too excited because of who he is talking to.

A soft laugh is the answer.

“Yes, that’s my name.”

“And are you truly a king?” He doesn’t want to add ‘you don’t look like one’ but Thorin seems to hear it anyway.

“My people insist I am although sometimes I rather wouldn’t be.”

Now Estel is starting to be intrigued. He always thought that most kings were happy with what they are and the comforts that such a life must offer them.

“Why?” he asks, looking up at the dwarf whose face is still hidden in the shadows. Thorin steps past him into the light of a candle before he answers so that they may see each other’s faces. The slight smile on his lips widens when he sees how young the boy in front of him still is.

“Because you are always a king for your people, never for yourself. And you can never stop being one, even if you wish to.” Estel doesn’t quite understand the meaning of his words but nods anyway, not wanting to embarrass himself in front of the mighty Thorin Oakenshield. Even when he thinks about it now, Aragorn wonders what had caused Thorin to be so open to a young child of no relation to him or his kin. It was unlikely that he had known who Aragorn was.

“But aren’t there fun sides to being a king, too? Like, telling people what to do?” Estel wishes he could do that sometimes. He will _never_ like broccoli, no matter what Elrond says about it. If he were a king he could just _order_ the cooks never to make some again.

“Sometimes.” There’s another hint of a smile on Thorin’s face, making small creases appear beside his eyes. “But it also means that you have to live with what you tell them to do. If one gets hurt because of something you ordered, then it’s your fault. If bad things happen because of it, then that’s also your fault. You can never tell someone to do something lightly.”

“That sounds like a lot of responsibility...” Estel frowns, trying to imagine what it has to be like to overthink every single decision you make.

“It is.” Thorin sounds serious, but the sparkling in his eyes betrays his amusement. “Now, young one, don’t you have anywhere to be? It’s getting rather late, don’t you think?”

“Oh, yes.” His mother will be furious if he stays any longer. “I should probably leave.”

He is about to start walking away when Thorin calls him back.

“Do you perchance know the way back to the balcony?”

Estel grins, happy that he knows something the king apparently doesn’t – and to have a legitimate reason to escape his bed a while longer.

“Of course! I can show you, if you want?”

Thorin inclines his head slightly.

“Thank you.”

Estel almost takes his hand like he always does when he wants to show his mother or Elrond something and they just aren’t following _fast_ enough, but thinks better of it in a moment. Surely a king would not want to hold a random young boy’s hand. Instead he skips along the way, making sure that Thorin still follows and leading him back to his Company and starting to question him about everything that he has heard about dwarves and the deeds of Thorin Oakenshield. Did he really stand against an orc with nothing but a wooden shield? Has he seen the dragon? How big was it? Why do all dwarves have such long beards apart from him? There seems to be no end to his questions, but Thorin answers them all patiently and with no small amount of humour in his voice.

“Thorin!” Fíli and Kíli cry out at exactly the same time when they return into the circle of his kinsmen. “And Estel, too! Where have you been?”

“So your name is Estel, hm?” Thorin chooses to ignore the last question, smiling at the boy instead and ruffling his hair. “Thank you for leading me back.”

“Uncle, wait.” This time it’s only Kíli talking. “Balin was back almost an hour ago. Does that mean you got...lost? Again? _Here_?”

Somewhere in the corner there is a choked sound and Estel is surprised when he sees that it’s _Dwalin_ of all dwarves who looks like he’s about to burst with barely suppressed laughter. Thorin turns around at the sound and scowls, but there is a softness in his eyes that hasn’t been there a moment before. Estel also hasn’t known that Fíli and Kíli are Thorin’s nephews – the information makes him look at them with different eyes.

“I wasn’t lost.” Thorin tells Kíli indignantly. “I was just...taking my time.”

“And taking in the wonders of Elvish architecture?” Dwalin grins, unable to hold back his amusement any longer. Thorin shoots him a glare that would have Estel cowering were it directed at him. Dwalin’s grin just widens. The dwarven king ignores him, instead plopping to the ground between his two nephews, putting a hand on each their heads for a moment, a gesture that makes Kíli yelp and cry out something amongst the lines of ‘uncle, my _hair_ ’ and Fíli just grin in reply and whispering to his brother ‘well, you never had much of it to begin with, did you’. Kíli tries to elbow him in his ribs, but is held back by Thorin who gives both of them a stern glance.

Estel watches the entire exchange with wide eyes – he has always thought of kings as regal and somehow stiff and even if Thorin’s clothes don’t look overly rich, he has expected him to follow that unspoken rule in his mind. Instead he seems to be no different from someone like Glorfindel, who was rather majestic in his own way but would still grab Estel under his shoulders and whirl him around and let him ride piggyback if he wanted to. Somehow it is a very comforting thought that kings can be normal people, too.

Thorin jests with his Company and his family and even though he is never as boisterous as many of the other dwarrows, it is clear how much they mean to him and how comfortable he feels in their presence. Aragorn can hear the echo of their laughter even decades later as he is standing in a cavern vast and cold, with nothing but dust and the dead for company save one living dwarf outside the doorway.

He fervently wishes he could have met Thorin again, could have told him how much his words had moved his heart, especially once his own name and fate had been revealed to him. He had been the first to tell him of the responsibility that came with being a king, but also show him that there was no need to forsake your humanity even if you were a ruler. Aragorn wonders about the kind of king Thorin would have made had he lived to enjoy his reclaimed kingdom. Of course he has heard the stories of Thorin’s supposed madness and how he had valiantly ‘redeemed’ himself on the field of battle by dying. Something had always irked him about this story – if mistakes were only redeemable by death then by rights a lot of people should be dead and a lot more have lived.

Even he had seen that there had been so much more to Thorin Oakenshield than just a ruler who went mad and found his deserved end on the battlefield. He remembered the soft sadness in his eyes, the gentle smile playing around his lips and affectionate glances he had doted on his nephews with, the way he had looked at Dwalin as well as the rumbling laughter in the background when he had watched his company. Aragorn wonders for how many dwarrows the dwarf in their memory was still filled with such life instead of being just another hero from tales and legend.

He trails his fingers over the cold stone, a gesture almost achingly familiar. How many times has he done the same at his mother’s grave? Yet the pain never lessens, just becomes numbed in an odd sort of way by the passing of time. He idly wonders about the kind of princes Fíli and Kíli would have made now – or maybe even king in Fíli’s case already if his uncle had decided to turn the kingship over to him early. He hadn’t known them for long, but their laughter and cheekiness has been edged into his brain and he is sure that their presence would have made the mountain an even brighter place.

He has rounded the tombs so that he is standing at the head of Thorin’s now. With a careful gesture he places his fingers on the runes that form his name and proclaim him King under the Mountain.

“Thank you.” he says out loud and the words echo strangely through the silence of the tombs. _For showing me what it means to be a king._ Which other words might the stone of these caverns have heard and taken up over the years? How many times have others come down here to talk to those that have passed, to cry, whisper or shout at them in useless rage?

Aragorn lingers a while longer, takes in the silence that reigns again and is an almost welcome change to all the bustle that is always around him wherever he goes nowadays. But his duties won’t wait forever, he knows, and so he turns around again after a while and steps out of the tombs where the Heirs of Durin have found their eternal rest. He walks past Dwalin who hasn’t changed his posture a single bit and, after a moment, hesitates before he turns around to speak to him. Dwalin might not remember who he is, but he _does_ remember the warrior and so he would give him comfort where he can.

“Bilbo is sending his greetings.”

Dwalin shifts when he hears Aragorn talking to him and there is a soft light in his eyes when he hears Bilbo’s name. Aragorn knows from Bilbo’s tales that many of the Company have visited him in the Shire in the years after the quest – even Balin had come to say his goodbyes before he had left with his ill-fated expedition for Moria. He has grown incredibly fond of the dwarves and the only reason he hadn’t returned to Erebor after his 111th birthday was that he had simply felt he couldn’t have done the journey anymore, old hobbit that he was.

“How is he?” the old warrior asks.

“He would have come, but he is too old now to travel long distances, I’m afraid. But apart from his age he’s well – and told me to give you all his regards and that he’s sorry he couldn’t make it. Also, he says the oak in his garden in Hobbiton has been growing quite beautifully.” Aragorn has never been sure about what the last part of the message means, but obviously it is different for Dwalin since a small smile appears around his lips when he hears it.

“I never thought he’d actually get that damn acorn to grow.” Dwalin murmurs, shaking his head slightly even though he must have seen the tree during those instances when he visited Bilbo. “Thorin would have been happy to hear it.”

Aragorn realises that it must have something to do with the quest, maybe even with Thorin since Dwalin doesn’t tell him anything else about it and he doesn’t ask. After a moment of visibly pulling himself together Dwalin stands up straighter again, looking directly at Aragorn from under his bushy white eyebrows.

“If I may ask, your majesty, what brings the High King of Gondor and Arnor down into the tombs of the Line of Durin?” So he _had_ recognised his name, if not his face. Dwalin’s gaze is piercing, betraying not a single year of his age.

“I came to thank him.” Aragorn replies, noting the look of both confusion and slight anger flittering over Dwalin’s face, thinking that he and those he guards are being ridiculed. Aragorn hurries to add a few more words. ”I met him during the time of the Company’s stay in Rivendell and though he might never have noticed, his words about kingship have always stayed with me.”

Recognition suddenly dawns on Dwalin’s face. “You’re Estel.”

“I am.” Aragorn smiles. “ And as I said before I am glad to see you alive and well, Master Dwalin.” There is a brief pang of pain in the dwarf’s grey eyes at his words, suggesting that there has been more than one moment where he wished that he had joined his king and princes into the Halls of their Maker.

“I am too.” Dwalin replies with all courtesy. “I never would have thought that the young boy from Elrond’s house would one day sit on the throne in Minas Tirith.”

“Neither have I.” This time, Aragon’s smile is even wider. “As much as I never thought that a king could get lost in Rivendell’s Halls.”

“Aye. Thorin possessed many things, but a good sense of direction was never amongst them. Who knows where he might have ended up had you not ran into him.” There is a fondness and barely-veiled pain in Dwalin’s words and something else, too, that Aragorn had not quite expected there. He notices that it seems to do Dwalin good to reminisce about Thorin outside of legends and the often-told stories – and maybe that explains his for dwarves so untypical openness in front of Aragorn. Maybe the reason that he is here, standing guard when everyone else including his companions are up there celebrating doesn’t have as much to do with duty as Aragorn thought at first. It must hurt to hear Thorin being talked about like just another hero from legend, especially now that Balin, his own brother, has passed on as well.

“Then I am all the more glad that I did.” They are both quiet for a moment, lost in memories of a day almost eighty years past. “He would have made a good king.” Aragorn remarks softly.

“Yes.” No more words than that are needed, a simple acknowledgement of the truth in Aragorn’s words, and, at the same time, a flicker of gratitude that he did not condemn Thorin like so many others had after hearing stories of his madness. For a second the notion unites them and there is new respect in Dwalin’s eyes when he takes up his position in front of the doorway again, signalling that their talk has ended. Aragorn nods at him, conveying his thanks for letting him enter and listening to his words and his own respect for a dwarf who has seen more death and lost more than he himself could ever fathom and yet still stands tall and unwavering under the lashings of fate.

That night he curls up close to Arwen when she comes to join him in bed, her arms wrapping around him from behind and pressing his body to hers. She knows, of course, that he had met the Company all those years ago and where he went after leaving the feast; but he has never told her the complete story and somehow he thinks he owes it to both Thorin, his nephews and all the others that have passed on that he does so now. She listens to his words, her eyes coming alive with his own memories and he knows that Thorin Oakenshield and the others will now be alive for a bit longer, their memory never forgotten as long as either of them lives.

 


End file.
